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Harry glanced around the dimly lit club with a practiced eye. He’d seen it all before – not this specific club, but others like it. They were all the same, really. Dim lights, loud music, alcohol, a dancefloor, and a seating area.
He’d come to know his way around gay wizarding clubs in the year or so after his public – and not entirely voluntary – coming out. It worked out for the best – he’d dumped the guy who had outed him, despite his assurances he did it ‘for Harry’. Life out in the open was, he had discovered, better anyway – he no longer felt self-conscious when staring at guys' arses, and he didn’t have to disguise himself to meet someone in a club either.
That, he’d found had been the best change – he could have his pick of men wherever he went. He’d taken to only visiting a place two or three times before moving on to a new one – that way, he could avoid most of his groupies. He didn’t care for men that wanted him only for his fame – he was more interested in the ones that wanted him for what he had to offer. If his fame slightly expanded his options in that regard, well, he could live with that. It was a Slytherin thought – but then he’d very nearly been one, so he assumed that that was fine. It kept the boredom at bay, in any case – the strange loneliness that came sometimes when he was in a crowd of people.
He didn’t care for the feeling – but even with his attempts to avoid the monotony of it all, sometimes it felt like that feeling would ambush him out of nowhere. He shook his head to get rid of the maudlin thought, unwilling to let it ruin the evening before the fun part began. Standing once again in a corner of the room, he surveyed what was on offer.
There were two distinct sides – the dancefloor was filled with the younger men. Under 30s, mostly, dancing, having a good time. The seating area to the side was the opposite – no less loud but far calmer, as that was where the older wizards tended to sit and watch. It was fairly simple – in Harry’s experience, they’d wait, watch, and then approach someone they were interested in. Sometimes it was the other way too, of course – one of the younger men from the dancefloor would approach an older man that caught his fancy – and naturally, there were plenty of young men engaged with each other.
For the most part, that was his thing – he liked attractive, fit guys with a good bit of muscle and a solid build, after all. He’d experimented a few times, and discovered that he also liked older wizards, the ones that had a bit of a gut without being fat, strength without showing muscle.
He hadn’t decided yet what he was after this time but found himself studying the older wizards to the side. It was funny, really – he didn’t know a single one of these men, but they were all nearly identical. Obvious expressions of desire on their faces as they watched the younger men writhe on the dancefloor, just trying to find a suitable partner for themselves.
His eyes travelled the length of the room and then back again when something caught his eye. He nearly dropped his drink – criminal, given how much they charged – as he realised that there was just one wizard who stuck out among the others. Not in the way Harry would have imagined, had he imagined such a scenario at all.
Not that he had – until about a second prior, he’d had no idea at all that Severus Snape might fancy men. Yet there he was, dressed in black – of course – sitting amidst other wizards about his age, or a bit older. He wasn’t speaking to anyone at all, was simply watching the dancefloor while sipping his drink.
Harry stared, utterly dumbfounded at the sight of him. Only then did the real curiosity register to him – there was something off about the other man. Not wrong, just different from the others around him. He followed the dark gaze to its inevitable goal – the dancefloor.
He was looking in the same place as the others, but he wasn’t doing it in the same way, Harry realised. No, where hunger and arousal dominated the faces around, Snape looked… longing in a way that made Harry feel almost uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to call it, but he did know that it made him feel strange.
He gulped down the rest of his drink and approached Snape – likely, they’d be shouting at each other in seconds anyway, so it probably wouldn’t take up much of his time.
“Hello, Professor Snape.” He all but purred as he slipped onto the two-seater Snape was sitting in. The man was slim – Harry fit next to him without issue. Well, he would have, if he hadn’t deliberately pressed himself close, just to see the other man startle, hiss, and maybe even scream. He grinned to himself, mentally adding up how many drinks he’d had and stopping at ‘many’.
“Mr. Potter.” Snape replied in a low voice, his eyes snapping to Harry and away again. He waited for a second, but nothing else came – no reaction, nothing at all. The older man didn’t even move away, although Harry was pressed against him hip to arm now.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see you in this sort of place.” He prompted, hoping for a better reaction this time.
The other man sighed. “Likewise, although I believe it was only a matter of time, given your… spontaneous nature.”
Harry chuckled. “Are you calling me a slut, Snape?” He asked, not in the least bit offended. The other man looked over again.
“I wasn’t calling you a monk.”
Harry laughed again, pleased by how non-aggressive Snape’s snark was. “How come you weren’t surprised when I came over? Did you see me?” He questioned, gesturing to the spot he’d been in – it was even more in the dark than Snape had been.
The other man shook his head, eyes still on the dancefloor. “No. I was, however, aware of the whispers. I’m sure you won’t be surprised that every wizard here has their eye on you.” Snape said in a monotone voice.
He shrugged lightly. “That explains the club in general, but you were clearly not surprised I approached you.”
At that, thin lips quirked up into a semblance of a smile – or maybe a scowl. Harry wasn’t sure.
“I assumed at some point you would inflict yourself on me with some sort of asinine question if you saw me here.”
Harry blinked – he hadn’t expected to like the way Snape pronounced the word asinine. It was… strange. He shrugged.
“Haven’t bothered you with them yet, have I?” He asked, deliberately phrasing it as, well, a question. This time he was sure – it was a scowl.
“What do you want, Potter?” He asked, the first traces of temper in his voice. Harry relaxed a little – more familiar territory.
“I just wanted to chat with you. Like I said I didn’t expect you here.” This time, he took care to phrase his question as, well, not a question.
Snape scoffed and emptied his glass, before waving to a waiter to bring him another. Harry realised what would happen before Snape did and fought a snicker – the waiter brought them two glasses. Of course, he did – he’d likely assumed that Harry was Snape’s pick for the night.
Harry paid for them before Snape could react. “Drink’s on me, Professor.” He said, almost gleefully.
“I can purchase my own alcohol.”
“I’m sure you can. So, how come you’re here?” He questioned, temporarily forgetting he was trying not to ask. In all fairness, he was just on the right side of buzzed at the moment.
“Why would any gay man be here, Potter? Don’t be dense.”
Harry nodded, surprised at the way the other man’s roundabout admittance of his interest in a partner made him feel. He didn’t like it – it was weird.
“Picked a twink, then?” He asked, turning to the dancefloor. He studied the men there, wondering what sort of guy Snape went for. The thin, lanky ones? Buff? Short? As tall as the Slytherin himself? ‘Not a clubbing one’ he’d have assumed, but then...
“Don’t be a fool. I’ve not picked anyone, nor will I.” Snape growled, the ice in his drink clinking against the glass. Harry hummed and leaned into him a little more, for balance. He sipped his own drink.
“Why’s that?”
The barked laugh surprised him – unpleasantly. “Potter how wasted are you? Do you need new glasses?”
“What? No, they’re fine.” He said stupidly, wondering what he was missing.
Genuine irritation – anger, even – flooded Snape’s features. “Perhaps it’s a difficult concept to grasp for the darling of the wizarding world but some of us are not blessed with the ability to choose whomever we like.” The other man said darkly.
Harry blinked, struggling to keep up with Snape. He was feeling drunker now, felt the alcohol affecting him. “W-Well I don’t have my pick of everyone either.” He deflected lamely.
Snape laughed hoarsely, emptying the rest of his glass in one go. “Oh? I dare say there isn’t a single wizard here who wouldn’t kiss you if you wanted, who wouldn’t go home with you if you wanted.”
He paused for a second – then Harry’s lips twitched up in a smirk. Snape had clearly forgotten something.
“Want to make it a bet?” He asked, heart hammering in his chest.
Snape’s expression darkened. “What asinine game is this, Potter?”
There it was again – asinine. He really did like the sound of it. “Not a game. Just a bet, Snape. I’ll bet you I can find a gay wizard in here who won’t kiss me or go home with me. I’ll buy you a drink if I’m wrong.” He offered.
The other man tilted his head, studying him for a moment. “And if – when – I am proven correct? Am I to purchase you a drink?”
“Pretty much.” Harry said with a giggle, before finishing his current glass.
“Potter, you’re an imbecile.” Snape said with a hiss, his eyes darting between the dancefloor and Harry. “You really wish to... select a man purely because of a bet?”
He shrugged, uncaring. He’d picked for worse reasons than that, all things considered – and unlike Snape, he was sure of the outcome of the bet.
He waited for the other man to make his decision, leaning closer in anticipation of Snape’s confirmation. Indeed, it came – not verbally, but with a sharp nod that made Harry’s stomach flutter in gleeful excitement.
The kind of excitement, he realised, he hadn’t felt since the first few times he’d come out in public like this, before he’d realised every club, every hook-up was the same.
“Get ready to buy me a drink, Severus.” Harry said, delighting at how daring it felt to call the other man by his name. He didn’t let him respond, didn’t give him a chance – instead he leaned in and parted his lips, one hand clasped around Snape’s neck.
He didn’t actually kiss the man – he would never do that without permission. He simply hovered so close that he knew Snape would feel his breath on his lips. He knew because he could feel the other man’s as well.
There was a hitch to it, just for a second, a physical start. Harry’s heart was absolutely hammering in his chest, torn between the anticipation of the man cursing him into next week, and the excitement of having won a bet against Severus Snape.
Then, thin lips pressed against his, and it was his turn to startle. When he opened his eyes, he found Snape’s closed. He had a moment to contemplate the long lashes on pale skin, then lips moved against his, and instinct kicked in.
Harry kissed back, parting his lips for his partner, inviting the other man’s tongue into his mouth, rubbing his own along it. It was pure instinct, and when hands trailed through his hair, nails scraping his scalp and gently pressing against his back, he never even thought to question it. He went with it, moving in the way those hands directed – forward and a little to the left – and next thing he knew, he’d swung his leg over a pair of slim thighs. Their owner grunted in surprise, not breaking their kiss, though. Harry’s fingers brushed through long, straight hair, tugging a little to reposition his head a bit.
It was a good kiss – neither too passive nor too demanding. When Harry gently bit the bottom lip of his partner, he heard the most spectacular groaning sound – the moment ended when a hand pressed against his chest and pushed him back. He pulled away enough to look at his partner, only for reality to hit him like a bucket of ice water.
He realised, abruptly, that he had to be a lot drunker than he’d realised – how else would he have ended up kissing Severus Snape? Sitting in his lap, even.
He gulped, taking in the ugly, greasy git that had made his childhood miserable – except of course the man wasn’t any of that now, because the red flush of his cheeks, barely visible in the near-darkness, and the way he was lightly panting, his lips parted ever so slightly, were anything but ugly.
“Potter.” Snape growled, finally, putting an end to his spiralling thoughts. “What is the meaning of this?” The other man asked him.
Harry winced – what was he meant to say? Winning the bet, earning that drink, suddenly seemed quite irrelevant and where he’d liked the idea of upsetting Snape a moment ago, he didn’t now, not that he knew what had changed.
“The... bet? Obviously, you would never go home with me, so I knew if I kissed you, I’d win.” He said, wondering what about that sentence was so off – he figured it out when he felt a hand withdraw from the back of his neck, leaving his skin feeling chilly.
“So desperate for that drink that you’d kiss your ugly old potions teacher?” Snape questioned with a scowl.
Harry shrugged, shifting a little to allow his legs to relax. They were starting to cramp what with the way he was sitting on Snape.
He decided to very consciously not think about it – about any of it. It was easy enough, with the buzz of alcohol and the beat of the music around them. “I win the bet, though.” Harry declared confidently.
“How so, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked leaning back against the backrest of the little sofa and putting a bit of space between them. He still felt the warmth of the other man’s legs against his own – it felt odd.
“Because you obviously won’t go home with me... so you owe me a drink.” He declared confidently. At this point, he was fairly sure that he shouldn’t even have another, but it was a point of principle.
That principle failed him entirely when Snape’s lips quirked up in a smirk, and a moment later, he threw his head back. Deep, pleasant laughter echoed around them. It was hard to believe the sound even came from the other man – but when he leaned closer, as if to check, he found that it did.
He also found that it annoyed him because he was reasonably sure he was the one being laughed at.
When Snape quieted, Harry pouted and waited for an explanation.
“Potter... You think I’m so different from the other wizards in this place?” Snape asked, gesturing behind Harry’s back.
He shrugged. “Of course you are.” And he was – he’d always been different, no matter what.
“I’m afraid to disappoint, Potter. You won’t be getting that drink from me.” The other man said, giving him an almost weary look.
He didn’t quite understand – leaning forwards more, he braced himself with a hand against Snape’s chest. “Oh?” He asked, hoping to follow the other man’s train of thought.
Snape huffed – a moment later, Harry felt fingers ghost along his arse. He nearly balked at the sensation – nearly pushed into it, though – until Snape’s hand came away holding his wallet. He pulled a few galleons out and handed them to a waiter, receiving two glasses in return. Harry felt oddly exposed – part of him had expected that touch to be something else – but why?
“Thanks for the drink, Potter.” Snape said evenly, handing him his own glass. Harry took it with his free hand, watching as the older wizard sipped from his own, new glass.
“For me to buy you a drink, you’d have to be willing to go home with me.” He reminded him, entirely uncaring about the few galleons. It’d never been about that, only about the victory over Snape.
The other man clinked his glass against Harry’s. Almost as an afterthought, he hastily drank some of the amber liquid in it. It was fire whiskey – his second. He’d had something else before, but he couldn’t remember what.
“And why, Mr. Potter, do you think a man like me would possibly reject a boy like you?” Snape asked, deliberately giving him a once-over. He felt a little warm – he wasn’t wearing anything special, just his usual clubbing jeans and a tight top. Not half as revealing as many of the men behind him, in any case, and not warm enough to justify the feeling either.
“Because you’re you, and I’m me.” He replied, clenching his fingers into Snape’s button-down shirt. It was a bit stiff to the touch, but not unpleasant – and he could feel the other man had an undershirt on as well. It was as if he’d only taken off his robes to come here.
“So, we are... You’re the wizarding world’s saviour and I’m just another pathetic old pouf leering at beautiful men in a club.” Snape said, glancing away and drinking some more.
Harry gaped down at the other man – Snape thought he was beautiful? Or had he meant the dancers behind Harry? He half wanted to ask the man to repeat himself, but Snape was visibly annoyed already, and he thought better of it.
“I don’t believe you.” He blurted out, pulling his hand back and balancing on his knees without touching Snape – well, except for the insides of his thighs, still pressed to the outside of Snape’s. The words surprised him too, but then who could blame him?
“Don’t believe what, Mr. Potter? That I would take an opportunity to have a beautiful young lover for a few hours, even if it was just because he wanted to win a stupid bet?” Snape asked, giving him a wary look.
“Well... yes.” He agreed, emptying his glass and setting it aside. Snape huffed – and a moment later, fingers threaded through two of his belt loops and yanked.
He squawked as he fell forwards, fully pressing himself to the other man, sitting down hard on his legs. He grunted – not so much at the impact, as at the discovery of a familiar sensation against him – Snape was hard. He could feel it against his body, unbelievable as though that was.
Harry could feel his heart racing in his chest at the feel of it. He leaned closer again, until they were only separated by his hand between them, and a few inches between their faces.
“Now who’s desperate for that drink?” Harry asked.
Snape huffed, warm breath ghosting against Harry’s cheek. “I can purchase my own alcohol.” He reminded Harry again.
“Yeah... You took the bet though. And the drink.” He reminded Snape.
“So, I did.” The other man blandly agreed.
Harry’s heart sped up even more, until he thought it would jump out of his chest entirely. “Why did you do that, Professor?”
“What do you think, Potter?” Snape asked, at the same moment as fingers trailed down Harry’s spine. He wasn’t fully sure if he imagined the sensation or if it was real.
“I’m asking you. Did you think I would go for you?”
Thin lips twitched up into a brief smile. “No, of course not. I hadn’t assumed you to be that drunk. But either way, there would be a certain… appeal to seeing you with whoever you chose.” The other man said in a low tone that felt more personal than even the kiss had.
Harry gulped, trying to keep up, trying to understand, and failing relatively pathetically. “You like to watch, then?” He asked instead of anything sensible, because that was what he’d have said if Snape was anyone else.
The older man scoffed and turned away to sip from his drink. Harry’s eyes snapped to the exposed length of the man’s throat – he only just realised that, with the man not in robes, even with his collar buttoned, Harry could see far more of his skin than ever before. It was too dark to make out the scar that he knew sat there, poorly healed after Nagini’s bite. He’d only seen the injury once, after – in St. Mungo’s, while Snape had still been in a medical coma.
“What else do you think there is, for a man like me?” Snape questioned – he was nearly whispering into Harry’s ear, he realised. A moment later, he also understood why – Snape hadn’t moved, but he had. He’d leaned closer, more towards the pale skin he’d been staring at, until his head was once again, far too close to the other man.
Something about the man’s tone – a wistful, achy something he couldn’t even begin to understand, made something inside of him unfurl. He swallowed thickly, before making quite possibly the riskiest non-decision he’d ever made. He let himself fall forwards, pressing his face to the column of Snape’s throat, pressing his lips and his tongue to the skin there.
He was surprised, for a moment, to find it entirely unblemished, until his alcohol-addled brain reminded him that he was pressed against the wrong side of Snape, that the wound would be on his left, not his right.
As if to make sure, he ran his tongue against as much of the skin there as he could, not finding anything like scar tissue. He gently bit the flesh under his lips. A soft, quiet moan tore itself from the body he was pressed again, and once again he was startled by the realisation that this was Severus Snape. He pulled back, staring at the other man. Snape didn’t even look like himself, he thought – his head was fully tilted to the side, exposing his neck to Harry. His eyes were closed, his expression a mix of relaxation and something Harry thought might be confusion – he wasn’t sure. It certainly went a long way in transforming his expression from his usual scowl to something… nice.
After another moment, dark eyes opened, and he found himself facing a surprisingly cold look in those eyes. It was at complete odds with the easy acceptance of his touch – and it hammered home just how inappropriate what he had done was. He was comforted only by the fact that if he shifted even slightly, he could still feel the other man’s erection pressed against his crotch.
It was the only thing that did make sense – him sitting on another man’s lap, feeling his arousal. That, he understood – the rest made no sense at all.
“Potter…” Snape said in a dark tone before once again turning away and drinking – or rather, emptying – his current glass. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the one he had bought him, or if the man had somehow gotten another when he hadn’t been looking. His own was somewhere else – not in his fingers anymore, certainly.
“Snape.” He replied, unsure what the other man was thinking.
“Haven’t you made your point yet?” Snape asked with a dark glower.
“Point?” Harry repeated, fighting a sway he could feel in his body – it seemed to want to draw closer to Snape again, and he just about remembered that that was a dumb idea.
“Yes, the point that you are, in fact, so irresistible that even your hateful old teacher couldn’t reject you, no matter how much he humiliates himself by admitting that.” Snape said, his tone as dark as his expression.
Harry fought down a wince – he didn’t think that. Before he could say as much, a wave of dizziness swept over him and had him gasp. He was steadied by firm hands – Snape’s hands, he realised. He shook his head, and they fell from his arms as if the other man had burned himself.
“That isn’t at all the point I was going to make, Professor.”
“Isn’t it? What, then?” Snape asked, eyes scanning him as if he expected the answer to be written on Harry’s skin somewhere.
“The point I was making is… was…” He trailed off, not sure anymore either. He huffed, annoyed with himself, when he thought of something else to say. He gently placed a hand on the base of Snape’s throat, not surprised when the older man bodily twitched. Using the hand as leverage, he leaned up until he was towering over the normally taller man, looking down at him. He pulled back his hand, leaning on the back of the small sofa instead. This position put Snape’s face level with his stomach – and he found he liked looking down at him.
He ran a hand through Snape’s hair, combing his fingers through black tresses and pulling Snape’s head back at the same time. The man’s expression was pure, pinched annoyance, but he allowed the touch despite that. Harry grinned down at the other man, the room fully spinning around him.
“Put your money where your mouth is.” He ordered. He had a split second to wonder if the other man would even understand what he meant. For a few long seconds, they simply stared at each other, Snape looking up at him in obvious irritation – and then, to Harry’s shocked delight, hands came up behind him and pressed into his back. He was pulled closer, pressed forward as Snape buried his face against Harry’s stomach, hands urgently travelling the expanse of Harry’s back. The position meant that he could feel Snape’s large nose press against his stomach, his breath ghosting against a small patch of exposed skin Harry hadn’t been aware of until then.
He paid no mind to the hands on his back, leaned into their hold if anything, and arched his back, curious to see what would happen. It made his shirt ride up more, he realised, when a moment later, the older man shifted, leaning Harry back and following, his lips pressing against the skin Harry’s shirt revealed.
He should have been disgusted – he knew that – but his body very firmly had a different reaction. He groaned and gently shifted his hips forwards, pressing himself against the other man more. He felt a soft huff before those thin lips started pressing kisses against Harry’s stomach. It tickled a little, but he didn’t mind – the older man felt fantastically hot against him. He was also pleased by how well Snape was holding him up – he was bent far enough back that he’d have fallen if it weren’t for Snape’s unwavering hold on him.
He knew there was a metaphor there, probably, but he shook the thought of when lips parted against his body and Snape licked across the skin just below his belly button. That really did tickle and he found himself giggling like a little kid at the sensation. It made the other man stop, unfortunately, and lean back.
Harry found himself pulled upright again, supported in the same position he’d put himself in earlier, leaning above Snape. He sat back down, wrapping his arms around Snape’s shoulders and rubbing his nose against Snape’s before he could think better of it.
He’d long since given himself over to the alcohol and the charged atmosphere of the club.
“Earn the drink I bought you, Professor. Take me home.” He requested, before leaning in for another kiss.
Harry woke up with a groan, pain washing over him before consciousness had. His head was thrumming in agony, while his stomach and bladder fought for causing him the most grief. He rolled over, surprised, for a moment, when he didn’t find himself at the edge of his bed. It was explained easily enough – he hadn’t slept in his own bed. Fair enough, he often went home with whoever he met in a club on a night he went out.
He blinked his eyes open, not at all ready for the sting that even the low light in the bedroom he was in caused. He groaned again, trying to make out some of the bleary details of his surroundings. The sheets he was wrapped up in were a dark, rich green, the bed a large four-poster. Beyond that, he could only make out brick walls and dim torches along them – and a little further, he thought, some bookshelves. He sat up and glanced around, cursing his terrible eyesight.
“Accio glasses.” He muttered, holding his hand out for the frames, putting them on when they landed. The room was, as a whole, fairly dark, not just in lighting, but also in decoration – even the book spines he could see were dark.
The thing that he found most peculiar, however, wasn’t the décor – it was the company. He had a single moment to wonder if he’d lost his mind somehow – why else would he be looking at Severus Snape, sitting in an armchair, looking at him over the edge of a book?
“Good morning, Potter.” Snape said, setting down a teacup he’d apparently been holding.
Harry blinked twice, waiting for the mirage to dispel itself – to no success. He gulped, fighting the wave of dizziness his headache sent him.
“Professor Snape.” He greeted carefully, trying his best to remember the night before.
It didn’t take too long – he laid back down with a moan as memories flooded his mind. Memories – of him spotting Snape in a club, going to talk to him. Sitting on his lap.
He idly wondered if using the killing curse on himself would work – with the way he felt, he rather reckoned he might not even need one. Oh god, he’d sat on Snape’s lap.
“Potter. Drink this.” A familiar deep voice said to his left. He opened his eyes, unaware that he’d closed them, and unaware that Snape had moved. The man was now standing next to him, looking down at Harry with a pinched expression. In his hand, he held a small potions vial.
Harry took it, desperately hoping it was poison.
Of course, he wasn’t that lucky – it was a hangover cure. He could tell instantly, his headache settling down to something bearable, and his stomach no longer rolling with the immediate need to vomit. He gasped in relief, handing the vial back.
“Thanks.” He offered, sitting up yet again.
Snape stepped back from the bed, as if Harry had startled him – and maybe he had. He wasn’t sure what was normal anymore, and therefore also had no idea what wasn’t.
“How much do you remember of last night?” Snape asked warily.
Harry shrugged, his mind all too happy to provide him with the imagery – kissing Snape, pressing his arousal against Snape’s, the other man’s hands pressed to his back, and so on.
“All of it.” He hissed, wondering how much he’d drank – that he didn’t remember.
“Oh?” Snape asked lightly, in the same tone he’d had in class, moments before he’d tear into Harry for not knowing something about potions. “So you recall the… bet?” The man asked.
Harry froze yet again – he hadn’t, not until the man had asked.
“Fucking hell.” He groaned, rolling over on the bed, further away from Snape. Was there no end to his humiliation?
Apparently not – he abruptly became aware of the fact that he was naked, covered only by Snape’s sheets.
Not that covered either – when he glanced down the length of his body, he found that the duvet he’d no doubt been under was now wrapped around one of his legs and partly covering his arse – and that was it.
He glanced over to Snape, a little surprised to find that the man wasn’t looking at him in irritation, but with something else. He fully turned his head, only for the other man to put that same pinched expression back on his face. Harry realised, with some confusion, that it was likely fake. He also glanced Snape up and down – the man was fully dressed.
“Did you just sit there, watching me sleep?” He questioned, a little annoyed. Regardless of their circumstances, who did that? He’d have rather just been tossed out on his ear.
“Do you expect me to leave you to your own devices in my quarters?” The other man asked with a sneer.
Harry shrugged. “The fact that you brought me here at all is…” He trailed off. It was so many things – insane, weird, unbelievable… probably lots more things, but his mind was running out of adjectives far faster than he’d liked.
“Regretting your little bet in the light of the morning, Potter?” Snape asked, his voice completely different from before – he didn’t sound like his old horrifying teacher now, but rather more like the man whose lap he’d sat on the night before.
It was doing Harry’s head in. He rolled over again and sat up, careful to keep the duvet over his crotch at least – but now that he was looking for it, he didn’t miss the way Snape’s eyes travelled his body. It gave him a tiny bit of confidence, and he was in dire need of it.
“I’m regretting my last four drinks, that’s for sure. I don’t even remember how many I had.” He complained, ignoring the question the other man was really asking. He couldn’t answer it, in any case – he had absolutely no memory of fucking Snape. That part, at least, seemed to be wiped from his mind for good.
Snape scoffed. “Yes, you were positively wasted and that was before the two whiskeys you had with me. Do you often drink yourself in a stupor?”
Harry scowled and shuffled to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over it. “Never. It’s too dangerous around strangers.” He truthfully admitted. “I don’t really know why I had so much yesterday.”
The other man raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. After a long moment of tense silence, Harry rubbed his eyes and decided to continue. “What about you then? You must have been quite drunk too.”
Of course, he had to have been – why else would he have gone anywhere near Harry?
“I only had the three glasses of whiskey – I assure you I can handle far more than that, especially after teaching you potions for six years.” The man said frostily.
Despite himself, Harry found himself chuckling at the dry humour – and besides, Snape had a point. He hadn’t exactly been a… good student, even if many of his failures were due to other people’s influences.
“Where are my clothes?” He asked, looking around and finding none.
Snape stiffened, his expression turning curiously blank. “I believe the house elves would have taken them to be washed.”
Harry once again laid back on the bed – clearly, it couldn’t get any worse. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, wondering how this kind of shit even happened to him. Eventually, he sighed and leaned up on his elbows.
“Can I borrow something of yours? I’ll bring it back when I’ve changed into my own things.” He requested warily.
Snape tilted his head. “I doubt many of my things will fit you, but you are welcome to borrow something. I will be in the sitting room – and I will know if you touch something other than my wardrobe. The bathroom’s on the left.” The man snarled with a glare, before sweeping out.
Harry stood, surprised the man had any care at all for his modesty – only to realise why, a moment later. He was hard – morning wood. Apparently waking up feeling like Death warmed over hadn’t discouraged his body from its usual morning routine.
He stumbled over to the wardrobe, pulling it open and finding – unsurprisingly – identical sets of black robes. A little bit of looking revealed a stack of black and white shirts, trousers, socks, and finally, boxers. He skipped those, took a pair of slacks, some socks, and after a moment of hesitation, a white shirt.
Snape had been wearing black the night before and… no. Just no.
He took his borrowed clothes to the bathroom, where he hastily showered and dressed himself. Unsurprisingly, Snape’s clothes really did fit quite poorly. He actually did up all the buttons on the trousers, finding them to still pool around his ankles. The shirt had a similar issue – though it was way too tight across his chest, the sleeves were so long he ended up rolling them up to his elbows. Still, at least he was dressed. Pulling on the socks as well, he finally wandered outside.
He was feeling a little more like himself now, and felt slightly more up to facing Snape. Stepping outside in the living room, however, he was once again caught off-guard by Snape.
This time, it was because the man was sitting by a coffee table filled with breakfast food. The man was holding a book – the same one, he thought – and clearly not eating at all. He approached him, wondering what Snape thought of Harry’s state of dress.
The other man looked him up and down once – and then a second time. Harry frowned, wondering what he was missing. He cautiously crossed his arms over his chest only to stop immediately – he could feel the buttons on the shirt protesting, and while the other man hadn’t yet he didn’t want to be murdered for something as stupid as that.
“Sit, Potter. You might as well eat.” The other man said, waving his hand. A second armchair walked itself over, positioning itself by the coffee table. A little awkwardly, Harry sat and picked up one of the empty plates there.
“Aren’t you eating?” He asked, as he loaded some of the food onto his plate. He was, in all fairness, starving. Still, he tried his best not to eat like a troll, all too aware of Snape’s eyes on him.
“I take my breakfast at seven, not eleven.” The other man drawled, judgement heavy in his voice.
Harry nearly choked on his pasty. “Eleven?” He wheezed out.
Snape hummed, before turning back to his book. “Late for work?” He asked idly.
He huffed. “No, of course not. I don’t go out on a-” He winced – he’d nearly said school night. “Work night.”
“How responsible of you.” Snape replied blandly.
“What about you? No classes? Or detentions?”
“Even I value my Sundays, Potter. I prefer not to spend them around students.” The man replied in a surprisingly non-combative tone. Harry couldn’t remember ever seeing the man in detention on Sundays, actually – except for when Dumbledore had forced their occlumency lessons, he couldn’t recall seeing Snape much on the weekends, actually. He was surprised he’d never noticed before.
“What about former students, then?” He asked with a grin, chewing the last bite of his pumpkin pastry.
At that, Snape looked up, closing his book. “Also, not a common occurrence – but I will admit that I find a beautiful young man naked in my bed slightly less offensive than a crying eleven-year-old trying to cut stinkweed. At least until you woke up.”
Harry laughed, despite himself, the mental image of just such a student far too vivid for him to be able to help himself. When he calmed down again – and when Snape’s compliment penetrated his mind – he was surprised to find that the other man was smiling too, just a little.
He swallowed thickly. “Beautiful, huh?” He asked teasingly, setting down his plate. He was still hungry, but something about the conversation was far too interesting, suddenly.
Snape huffed and turned his head away, profile hidden by his hair. “Fishing for compliments again, Potter? Surely your sycophants give you enough of them.” The other man hissed.
Harry’s heart skipped a beat. This was nothing like the Snape he’d known for most his life. “I don’t care about their opinion, though. You’re the one I kissed last night.” He reminded the other man, pleased when Snape’s head shot around, a red flush on his cheeks. He didn’t even mind the furious scowl that accompanied it – he still felt like he’d won, somehow.
“You! Idiot child… You’re lucky it was me who took you home last night. You could have ended up in a situation far worse, getting so drunk.” The other man said, suddenly on his feet and staring Harry down.
He winced – of course the other man was right, but… “I knew you’d look out for me.” He admitted. As embarrassing as his childish belief in Snape’s protection of him was, even when impaired, he hadn’t worried about himself for even a second.
Snape looked at him for a moment, his expression somewhat dumbfounded. “Potter… you gambled your health, your life on the fact that I of all people would protect you and not take advantage? Are you mental? Do you have a death wish?”
Harry laughed lightly. “I’m not, Snape. Stop yelling. And of course, I trust you to keep me safe.” Something else niggled at the back of his mind. “And when you say ‘not take advantage’…?” He checked, wondering all of a sudden if anything really had happened between them.
“Of course, I didn’t!” Snape hissed. “I could see how drunk you were. I took you home, dumped you into bed and spent the night brewing. I know you think lowly of me, but do you really think I would take advantage of a man who couldn’t consent?” The other man snarled, possibly more furious than Harry had ever seen him.
He took a half-step back, surprised at the ferocity of the reaction – and his own in turn. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No, Snape, I don’t think that. Of course, I don’t. I had assumed you were drunk as well.” He explained.
Some of the pique left the other man’s expression, the tension slowly dissipating. “I am many things, Potter, but not the sort of man that would… pursue someone unwilling.” He finally said, still irritated.
Harry wanted laugh again – Merlin knew he had been willing. Had been ready to accept that they’d been together, even. What was wrong with him? He ran a hand through his hair, idly wondering if he wasn’t still a little drunk from the night before as he stepped closer to the armchair Snape had just sat down in again.
He leaned down on both of its armrests, putting his face level with the potions master’s. “But you wanted me, didn’t you?” He asked, reconsidering his answer to Snape’s question about his will to live. Clearly, he did have a death wish.
He just thought about whether or not he should lean in closer, whether the other man would kiss him again if he did – when he found himself ripped away, a gale of wind slamming into him and ripping him off his feet. He screamed, flailing as he sailed through the air – through a doorway, and into a wall. The impact drew a harsh grunt from him, his headache back with a vengeance as he collapsed to the ground there. A door – the one he’d flown through – slammed shut, leaving him sitting in what he quickly recognised to be a corridor in the dungeons.
He climbed to his feet with a grunt, relieved to find that he wasn’t hurt at all.
“Well… that wasn’t a no, was it?” Harry asked the closed door – unsurprisingly, it didn’t give him an answer. Harry grinned. He did so love a challenge - and something told him, Snape was far more receptive to the idea than his prickly nature had suggested. After all, Harry was unharmed, and he'd given him both a hangover potion and breakfast.
Yes, he decided, this could work.